


Fenrir

by MadCapMushroom



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadCapMushroom/pseuds/MadCapMushroom
Summary: Yet another Asgardian alien crashing to Earth and causing trouble
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Ch 1

**Author's Note:**

> A gift I attempted to write years and years ago that never made it to its recipient. I figured I might as well post it here, so some people I know can read it. And anyone else who is bored and wants to read something

Run and Hide and Quiet, Quiet, Let No One Know.

Orders. Codes. Necessity. Before breathing, before hurting eyes so much as saw light, the knowledge of these commandments were there, swallowing up his mind. Without heeding these, he would not last another breath. It was not words; it was Knowing. A Knowing etched down to unfamiliar bones and into the meat of his essence.

So even before the chaos of a world at war settled into place, flowering in his senses like a blossom, the Know was there. Death hung metallic and organic and acrid in air so clogged with dust it was a veil that hung between him and the shrieking horror of a battlefield. Something alien and seething with cords of malice screamed by, trailing blood and destruction. 

Excitement. 

Saliva pooled in a mouth with too few, too blunt teeth. The feet that splayed wide and planted themselves in the rough ground beneath were naked and tiny, unfamiliar. This body was strange, small, inefficient. Yet even this form could slaughter. 

The first few hours of new existence were spent hunting. Prey was almost as thick as the omnipresent dust. Humans, weak and pale and reeking with terror and pain were ignored in favor of more challenging opponents. 

On the destroyed roads and the strange buildings of an alien city he stalked them. Large, bland creatures of colorless grey with weaponry and enough mass to make them entertaining. The meat of them was cold and wretched, not worth consuming. 

He passed other hunters. Humans not content to cower in self-preservation but who took to the battlefield, weak and confused as they were. Warriors in uniforms and barely any armor with metal projectiles and squalling vehicles that flashed blue and red. A group of raging menial laborers, still coated with the sweat of interrupted work and wielding whatever weapons they could lay hands on, tools and lengths of wood or metal, most in filth covered vests of eye searing yellow. Lone hunters, such as himself, with greater skill than the others but no less enthusiasm. A man who flipped and danced upon the edge of rooftops, beating his opponents with clubs. A man with slashing claws of silvery metal who sliced his way through his enemies without regard for his own survival. A thin youth who flickered briefly on the side of a building before leaping away. 

Interesting fellow hunters that would have made worthy prey had he not had so many even stranger beasts to play with. And these toys were not the sort of creatures he would ever have thought to side with. Graceless, ugly, concerned only with destruction. They would have been more likable had they any standards he could understand. But no; they did not seek to hunt anything that had a chance of providing sport. In turn, they themselves were suitable only for hunting.

By the time the battle died, the wailing of beasts overhead silenced and replaced by the beating of metal wings, he was sloppy with ichor and his new body worn in and achy with satisfied fatigue. 

The dust thinned and the cities populace reemerged like battered moles from a collapsed burrow, blinking in the sunlight and clinging to each other for comfort. The silence was soon filled with the hum of mourning humans singing a song of confusion and sorrow. 

He ignored them. The buildings that formed a canyon over a shattered black road were mostly intact and from many came the smell of food. Savory cooked dishes, the sweet yeasty scent of bread, the burn of alcohol and something bitter and intriguing. He followed his noise and the growling of his empty stomach to a crumbled opening, crunching glass underfoot and punting aside twisted remnants of chairs and tables. A metal lined, hollow door swung open at his touch and he entered a gleaming kitchen, untouched save for dust knocked loose of the paneled ceiling.

Food. Drooling over the edges of a grin, he leapt upon the nearest table, the metal squealing beneath blunt little claws. Bread sat on a white plate, cool now but at one point warm enough to melt butter that had long since soaked into it. He reached for it.

NO. NOT FOR HIM.

More knowing, but different. This knowing came from someone he did not like. Hated, hated this knowing. It said No, Not For The Beast. Raw, dead flesh, tasting of decay, tossed to him as a boon, a grudging favor. Flesh that only a scavenger would eat. An insult to a hunter.

He snatched up the bread and ate quickly, snarling at the invisible Hated One, who was not there but lingered in the Knowing.

The bread was beyond description. A flavor even haste could not lessen the enjoyment of. Rich, textures once known but forgotten. 

He did not care if he were caught. What could be done to him not that had not happened before? Better to take what he wanted while it was here for the taking. 

Bread, fruits, syrups, meat. Not raw and old, revolting with every bite, but flavorful and roasted to crackling textures. Jugs of milk from a cupboard that was magically cold. Cheese of differing colors, textures and flavors. Pastry sweet enough to ache.

When someone dared to intrude on his oddessy of delight, he turned with a warning snarl and threw a stunted ceramic mug at the humans head. When that one fled he went back to searching a tall cupboard for delightful, sugary flakes that, according to the images printed along the front of its thick paper container, were meant to be made into some sort of soup with milk. 

But the human returned and brought comrades. Those blue garbed soldiers that had fought the beasts with tiny metal contraptions that spewed even tinier projectiles. They were haggard and drooping with exhaustion, apparently not yet released from their duties despite the lack of enemies to fight. He felt almost sorry for them and merely growled rather than throw anything at them.

“This is the looter?” A blue garbed female demanded sourly, scowling at the first intruder. 

“Yes! He threw a mug at me and tried to bite me!”

He glanced over his shoulder and hissed. That was a patently untrue statement; as if he would even want to bite something as smelly and unappealing as the human when he was already surrounded by delicacies beyond imagining. The female took note of his reaction and sheathed the little projectile weapon on an ungainly belt.

“He’s a kid,” she said and waved down her comrade, a taller human, male and with the twitchy stance of an inexperienced youth blooded before his time. “And in horrible shape.”

That seemed fairly rude. He glanced down at himself. The shape of his body was similar to the humans, slightly smaller, but not in a fashion that was displeasing, much less horrible. He scowled at the woman and sat sulkily on the edge of a table to better showcase his unhappiness. 

She made a huffing sound and patted the shoulder of her dusty companion. “Schaffer, take the owner out. I’ll see whats going on here.”

“Are—“ The human mans voice cracked, high and shattering before being forcibly controlled. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, just stay in the dining room and call me if anymore aliens pop up.”

The whinging intruder was prodded away and it was then only the female warrior.

“Hey.” Her voice was pitched low and soft, the tone of one speaking to a frightened animal. He was amused and did not interrupt. “Hey, kid, you alright? You hurt anywhere?”

He scoffed and would have turned away in derision had a twanging from his feet not drawn his attention. Waggling stinging toes, he frowned and brought them up to his face. 

“Damn, what are you, a gymnast?”

He ignored her in favor of inspecting the pulpy, oozing bottoms of his feet. It was terrible; where were his tough pads? With feet like these he could not run as far and hide as well as the Knowing demanded. With an unhappy, frustrated whine he thrust the offending appendages towards the human.

“Christ,” she exhaled, the word barely formed and mostly air. She made to skirt the wreckage of the shelved center table dividing them but stopped when he leapt atop one of the cold cupboards and snarled at her. Lifting her hands in a gesture of peace she took an exaggerated step back. 

“Okay then. I’ll stay back.” Scratchy, disjointed voices crackled from an ungainly box on her belt but were ignored. “You can stay up there as long as you need.”

He snorted. Of course he would, it wasn't as though she could move him. To prove how unconcerned he was he began eating from the paper box of sugar coated flakes, staring archly over a shelved table. The woman did not appear fazed.

“You seem pretty hungry. And can’t say I blame you for taking advantage of the mess to pop in here and pig out. Places like this charge an arm and a leg for good plate.”

He cocked his head. What an interesting concept. Had he known he would have brought in a bundle of limbs ripped from his prey, just to showcase his skill. This was a form of currency he heartily approved of. Grinning at the human, he pulled another box of flakes from the nearby cupboard and threw it at her.

Fumbling it in her surprise the human nearly dropped the gift but managed to maintain a hold. She looked up at him for a moment before snorting out a laugh. “Okay then. Why not?”

For a while they merely ate, she keeping up a steady, low pitched string of words, occasionally asking him where else he was hurt. Sometimes he pointed to the little aches and pains of wounds unnoticed until then, sometimes he would petulantly hurl a handful of flakes at her head. 

After his box was empty and he jumped down to search out something else to eat, she changed topic.

“So how old are you?”

Startled by the question, he paused to give it thought but abandoned the effort halfway and made a dismissive gesture. He did not know and did not care. 

“Hmm. Who’re your parents? I can give them a call, see if they’re… if they’re available.”

Parents? He stopped and turned to look at her, intrigued. Father, could she contact Father? Tapping his foot in excitement, he grumbled under his breath, wordlessly debating. The human appeared hopeful. 

Then the Knowing, the new knowing, whispered Secret. Hide. And he slumped unhappily. Father would not want him to recklessly search for him. It was better to hide in this shaken city until Father found him. Looking at the woman, he shook his head.

“Anyone else? A sibling or friend, any family at all?”

He shook his head and his body and went back to searching. 

“Whats your name?”

And he hadn't thought what he was called, hadn't thought about any identify beyond I and so answered without thought, barely choking back the name in time, the sounds mangled.

“Fen—“ 

Fenrir.

The woman stayed with him, watching and careful as he stripped the kitchen. When more humans arrived, many hours later, she took them aside to speak in hushed tones before returning. 

“Finn?” He glanced at her. “Listen, these people are here to help you. They’ll take you to the hospital, get you fixed up.”

Fenrir looked doubtfully at the trio of humans in the doorway, two in uniforms that smelt of blood and vomit and offal and were a similar blue to the woman, the warrior who had declared herself Officer Blake. The other was a shorter, softer woman in a subtly striped grey jacket and pants, with framed lenses of glass perched on her nose. 

“They’ll take care of you,” Officer Blake insisted and continued over Fenrir’s snarly grumble, “and I know you can take care of yourself but this would be easier.” Her chocolate dark eyes, only slighter darker than her dust coated skin, turned sly, piquing his interest. “They have beds and hot food. You could even take a bath.”

That was enticing. Fenrir cocked his head and considered. A bed. That was a soft thing, warm and comfortable with a good smell. And what did food taste like warm and steaming? He barely remembered. And to bathe…. Looking down at the sodden, congealing remains of a coat he had plucked from the rubble during his hunt, and noting that the ichor covering his bare skin was beginning to harden, he nodded decisively and leapt over the table.

Landing beside Officer Blake with a splattering thud, he grinned at the flinching of the three newcomers. Hah! Even in this body he was worthy of fear. Officer Blake sighed as he neatly aligned himself against her side, sniffing her warm, sweat heavy scent.

“Come on, Finn, be nice.”

Fenrir scoffed into her shoulder before trotting away to grab a loaf of buttered, herb slathered bread. Nice was boring, so why should he act so?

“He seems unstable.” The short, grey woman noted and flinched away when Fenrir cackled at her. “Maybe we should call for a psychiatric hold.”

“Look lady, I’ve been waiting here for six hours. He needs medical care and he’s not dangerous, so just cool it.”

Fenrir gasped and spun to face Officer Blake, betrayal as hot as blood surging in his veins. She leveled him with an unimpressed, sidelong look. 

“Don’t even start. I know you won’t hurt these people, because they are nice and will help you. Right?” She stared expectantly and refused to waver until Fenrir grumbled in unenthusiastic consent. “Good.”

He preened. People never praised him as often as he deserved. It was pleasant to know that Officer Blake recognized quality when it stood before her. The huffy little laugh she gave at his grin was confusing and he squinted at her. 

“Follow me to the ambulance, alright?”

And so he followed Officer Blake through the debris and outside. More vehicles were sitting on the street, some familiar black and white, but no longer flashing colors, others larger and red hued. He was led to one that was white and large, with two doors thrown wide at the back. 

He balked. Death, blood, the acidic scent of potions and burnt flesh, alcohol and excrement poured like water from the vehicle. Whining and grumbling, he edged away.

“Finn? Don’t be this way, kiddo. Its an ambulance. See? There’s medicine and wipes, look a pillow!” Officer Blake grabbed a stained cushion from the metal framed cot squatting in the center of the cramped interior and waved it. 

Fenrir only edged further back and gnawed fretfully on the crust of his loaf.

“No, no, no, don’t run off! We want to help you.” Officer Blake climbed into the ambulance and waved somewhat desperately. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Fenrir didn't know what was so special about the death carriage. Clearly, it was not something people survived often and her continued insistence that climbing aboard it would prove worthwhile made him doubt her credibility. 

“Lets just call someone else.” The grey lady had gone to stand by the side of the ambulance and was now looking unhappily at Fenrir, as though he were some sort of confusing species of insect she was unsure how to removed from her shoes. 

“Just do something helpful, for the love of God!” Officer Blake snapped and climbed woodenly from her perch, as though movement was painful. 

“No, you listen to me!” Grey lady shouted back, face infusing with blood as she gesticulated. “I’m not qualified for this! I’m not even a social worker, I’m a clerk! I just work in the same building!”

“In case you didn't notice the whole city has gone to shit. Everybody’s getting drafted to help wherever they can. Just stay with him and sign the damned paperwork when needed. That should be right up your line!”

Fenrir grumbled and paced, debating whether or not to simply leave. 

“Fine!” The grey lady hissed and promptly deflated, pouting at Officer Blake who likewise drooped. “But you come with us. You’ve developed a rapport with him so the process will be easier if you’re there.”

Schaffer, the newly blooded youth, wandered over to murmur to Officer Blake, “Its not a bad idea, ma’am. And while your there you can get those ribs looked at.”

Her face twisted sourly but she did not argue. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah.” Schaffer laughed humorlessly and twitched his shoulders. “Yeah. I’m meeting up with the rest of the precinct and we’ll partner up with whoever’s left, work damage control.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

Fenrir watched as the youth walked away, to a crumpled black and white battle chariot. Now that the battle was over Fenrir was finding the aftermath not nearly as pleasant an experience. He sidled closer to the death carriage and grumbled inquiringly at Officer Blake, who had sat on the doorway, head in scraped hands.

She looked up and quirked a lopsided smile. “This would be a lot easier if you would talk.”

Fenrir snorted and edged closer. He couldn't recall the last time he had spoken and the mangled attempt at his name had proven almost too painful to try again. He would save his words for when they mattered. 

“Ready to come in now?”

He considered it. The dusty breeze was airing it out enough that the smell was no longer suffocating. And perhaps surviving the journey aboard it was a mark of honor? Looking between it and the crumbling facade of the surrounding buildings, the stumbling groups of humans staring at the wreckage with stuporous expressions and the thin lipped grey lady, he decided that a new destination would at least prove more interesting. 

“Thats great!” Officer Blake praised, scooting to make room when Fenrir sat cautiously beside her. “Hey guys, come do your thing!”

The two uniformed men that smelled of death, who had up until then been handing out small packets to passing survivors, trotted over. Fenrir tensed.

“Sh, calm down. They’ll only check you over, maybe wash your feet. Wouldn't that be nice? Getting all the glass and other junk out?”

It was appealing. And though the humans were larger and in good health, he knew there would be no contest should they be foolish enough to challenge him. Extending one foot he huffed expectantly. 

The elder of the pair looked questioningly at Officer Blake and upon receiving a nod, squatted in front of the dangling appendage. He pulled strange blue gloves from a pocket and pulled them on with a snap. With a broad, lined face made haggard from exhaustion and bloodshot eyes that were warm regardless, he was a seemingly harmless individual. 

“Hi. I’m Gary.”

Fenrir grumbled acknowledgment and jostled his foot. For some reason his demand proved amusing to the humans, who laughed and relaxed. At Fenrir’s impatient rumble, Gary finally obliged and wrapped a large, blue clad hand around his ankle. 

“Lets see what we have here. Matthew? Could you get a bottle of water, saline and the rest?” Gary waited for affirmation from his partner before shuffling closer and wincing at the foot in his hand. “Ah, kid, this is pretty groddy.”

Fenrir did not recognize the word and bent double to look at the ‘groddy’ state his feet were apparently in, putting his face inches from Gary’s. The mans surprised puff of laughter was warm and moist against Fenrir’s face, smelling of garlic and spices. 

“Just sit back for now and let me handle this, rubber man.”

Fenrir obeyed with a sigh and leaned to the side to flop against Officer Blake, sniffing her neck. Humans must be a texturally pleasing mouthful, he thought absently, ducking away from her hand when she attempted to touch his head. 

“So officer, can you tell me anything about him?” Gary asked, accepting a transparent bottle and hefty box from his partner. He poured water carefully over Fenrir’s foot, watching him watch the water, as though expecting some form of reaction. When Fenrir did nothing more than bend closer to watch curiously, he frowned. 

“Not really. Just after the…” Officer Blake trailed off, frowning as she searched for words. “Just after the end, me and my partner were flagged down by some asshole who claimed to have been attacked by a looter, so we went to investigate. And we found Finn, who was stuffing himself like a turkey on death row.”

Gary set aside the water and withdrew strange metal pincers from the box, holding them up for Fenrir’s inspection when he tensed. After the necessary poking and squinting, Fenrir allowed them to be withdrawn and Gary set to work using the little tongs to pull shards of glass, bits of rock and the odd splinter of metal free, dropping them into a transparent bag.

“I’m not surprised. The kid is extremely underweight. Frankly I’m amazed he can walk.”

Officer Blake frowned and Fenrir ignored her in favor of watching a group of very small humans be herded up the road, hands clasped and faces smeared with dried tears and mucus. 

“I thought so.” Her voice sounded troubled. 

“I can’t see much behind all that junk, but he’s pretty banged up.” One foot clear of debris, Gary rinsed it with salty liquid from a transparent bladder and moved on to the next. “Has he said anything?”

Officer Blake shifted. “No. He said his name, or tried to. He had difficulty with it.”

Gary hummed thoughtfully. While waiting for his ankle to be released Fenrir looked upwards. The dust had almost entirely settled and the sky was darkening into night. Massive creatures with bulbous bodies and slender tails flew overhead, with wings that turned quickly as a hummingbirds but went in circles rather than up and down. They shown brilliant white light on the streets and the people it fell upon hailed it with shaded eyes and waving hands.

A mutter from Gary drew his attention down. The man felt his regard immediately and looked up with a soothing smile. “So your name’s Finn? Blake here say’s you haven't been talking much, so does that mean your throat hurts?”

Fenrir grumbled low in his chest, wiping a hand over the filth coating his throat. It certainly didn't feel good but it merely ached, though the skin covering it felt oddly tough and leather like. His aversion to speech had nothing to do with pain and everything with the difficulty of forming words, a skill that had decayed almost beyond salvaging. 

“I guess that means yes?” Gary muttered uncertainly, and proceeded to dry the wet foot in his grasp before rummaging in the box by his knee.

Fenrir raised his newly clean feet for inspection and grinned at them, waggling long toes capped with gnarled, blunt claws. All but one on his left were missing, torn loose as punishment in the recent past. The skin was pale and hairless, stippled with pink scars and fresh wounds. A ridiculous step down from his prior form but if that was the cost of his freedom, then so be it.

“Alright,” Gary said, holding up another alien device of cloth and tubes. “So far we’ve done everything backwards but I really do need to take your readings.”

And he began cinching the false leathery cuff around his upper arm.

Fenrir yowled in rage and kicked the betrayer away, tearing the cuff free and shredding it in a frenzy of teeth and claws before hurling the remnants at the prostrate Gary. Growling and angry, Fenrir batted away Officer Blake’s hands and prepared to leap away in search of freedom and more food. 

“Whoa, hold on!” Gary wheezed and shoved upright, hands spread in the same gesture of peace/surrender Officer Blake had introduced. Fenrir did not believe its sincerity at all. The man had tried to restrain him and Fenrir hated him.

“Its okay,” Officer Blake said repeatedly. “Its okay, you don’t need to do that if you don’t want to. Right, Gary?”

“Right. Of course not.” Rolling to his feet with a grunt, he dusted himself off and prodded the mangled cuff with the toe of one boot. With a chuffing laugh and a grin, he glanced sidelong at Fenrir. “I think its dead, anyway.”

Of course it was. Fenrir did not deal in half measures. He scowled at the lot of them and slithered into the corner of the doorway.

“So no blood pressure readings. Fine.” Gary went back to the box and pretended to ignore Fenrir’s growling as he withdrew another cuff and went to Officer Blake. “Lets look at you then.”

Despite himself Fenrir remained to watch the process as Officer Blake stupidly allowed herself to be bound. It was heartening when the cuff was removed in short order and her sleeve rolled down over unhurt skin. When the two humans set the cuff aside Fenrir snatched it up for inspection but refrained from tearing it to pieces.

“He’s a little odd, isn't he?” Gary said with a trace of amusement as he shone light into Officer Blakes eyes. 

“Thats an understatement. But he doesn't seem like a bad kid and I’ve met enough to know.”

“Yeah, I agree.” Gary stepped back and retrieved the box, not bothering to get the cuff back before stowing it in the back of the ambulance. “Well I can say pretty confidently you have some cracked ribs and a mild concussion, along with various bumps and bruises. If its wasn't for the head I might just send you home until the hospitals stop looking like a warzone, but I won’t risk it. 

“As for you,” he continued and faced Fenrir, who slunk his gaze sideways, “you do need to go in. Whatever's going on with you is out of my league. You going to cause problems?”

Fenrir thought about it. It was the likely outcome, but as of this moment he had no intention of making trouble. The grey lady and Mathew were hanging at a distance, the lady scribbling on a tablet of yellow paper. Perhaps he would create trouble for them later.

“You’re thinking way too much kid. Just climb in.”

Watching Officer Blake and following after her, Fenrir climbed aboard with a warning frown at Gary, who followed after and closed the doors with a shrieking thump of warped metal. Fenrir tensed and whined unhappily, but chose not to force them open. The windows were empty of the glass that had covered them and the air continued to flow smoothly from the front of the vehicle to the back.

Mathew and the grey lady entered the front and seated themselves. Mathew performed some magic to bring the carriage to life with a coughing roar, the mechanism hidden by panels and metal filling the air with the scent of oil and faint burning. Fenrir muttered excitedly as the vehicle lurched forward and rolled up the road. 

The journey was slow. Skirting rubble and other vehicles sitting abandoned at the roadside, taking a route even Fenrir could discern was circuitous, the streets became progressively livelier until they stopped at a large building so bursting with activity it all but wailed with sound.

Fenrir flinched from it. The ambulance had smelled of death and illness but this new place was a slaughterhouse of scent. The ambulance rolled slowly, carefully through a crowd of baying humanity and stopped beside others of its kind. When the doors were opened and they jumped out, he crowded against Officer Blake and her now familiar scent.

“I know its overwhelming,” Gary offered sympathetically and led them through a mass of humans and cars and chaos, shouldering a path when one did not open automatically. “A lot of these people are just trying to find some answers but damn, they could at least wait away from the doors.”

Inside the building with its glass walls and flickering lights, it was worse. The howling sound here was filled with desperation. Humans were packed against the walls and sprawling on the floor. Some were heavily scented with blood. Others of pain. People garbed in blue, pale green and white scurried from place to place, haggard but grimly efficient.

One such stopped at Gary’s hailing call, bouncing on bloodstained shoes as she waited for them to approach. Her skin was lighter than Officer Blakes, smoother, but grey with exhaustion. The dark hair pulled ruthlessly back from her face was clumped with oily sweat and she smelled of a hundred different people. Dark eyes flickered over the group and she frowned.

“None of you look like you need immediate attention, so stand back and wait your turn.” Her voice was brisk and Fenrir chuffed at it, latching onto this women's presence to drown out the sea of others surrounding them. A forceful personality had always been the best focus for him when the world was swirling with destruction.

“Come on, we called in. This is a special case,” Gary gestured to Fenrir, “and the doctors wanted to see him.”

Bloodshot eyes surround by dark smears of exhaustion looked Fenrir over. “The kid? Who was the doctor?”

“Costner.” Gary stated promptly and the woman grimaced.

“Of course.” The sourness infused in the words would have curdled milk, had any been present. “Follow me.”

They trouped through hallways, rode a strange inner building convenance to a higher level that was only slightly less chaotic and went into a small, windowless room with a high padded table and ugly white cupboards. 

“Hop up.” The woman ordered while pulling on familiar blue gloves.

Fenrir circled the table suspiciously, inspecting it for hidden traps or concealed chains that would leap out to ensnare him. Finding none, he jumped onto it and waited expectantly.

The woman blinked at him for a moment, still in the process of adjusting the gloves. A spark of interest lit in her exhaustion deadened eyes and Fenrir grinned at her.

“Didn’t expect it to be taken so literally.” The mumble was warmed by a sense of bemusement and Fenrir laughed at her, grinning wider when she quirked a sideways smile. 

“So whats the problem then?”

“He doesn't talk,” Gary offered from his slumped position in a nearby chair. Officer Blake and the grey lady sat in the other two; they appeared to have lost Mathew at some point and Fenrir decidedly did not care. “He was found several hours ago after the fighting stopped, binge eating. Blake here stayed with him until we arrived, but was only able to get his name out of him.”

“And what is his name?” The woman had walked to a counter and was scribbling on crowded paper.

“Finn was all we got out of him.” Officer Blake was sitting bonelessly in her seat, legs stretched limp in front of her. 

“Nice to meet you Finn. I’m Claire.”

Fenrir bobbed his head and smiled.

Claire snorted and reached for a cuff affixed to the wall, Gary, Officer Blake and the grey lady all chorusing sounds of horrified protest. Claire looked at them.

“We don’t do that,” Gary said somewhat weakly and scratched at his jaw. “He doesn't like it.”

“Tough shit,” Claire said briskly and walked over to Fenrir. “Give me your arm.”

Fenrir narrowed his eyes at the hand held expectantly towards him and scoffed.

“It won’t hurt and we need to do this. So don’t be a big baby and give me your arm.”

He stiffened at the implied slight to his bravery and snarled at her, unsure how to proceed when she merely sighed heavily and did not budge. He looked pleadingly at Officer Blake, who snickered and turned away.

“I’m waiting.” 

Grumbling and sneering, Fenrir extended his arm and allowed the cuff to be strapped in place. Claire demanded his finger and snapped a strange, blinking sheath onto it.

Then the cuff clamped tight and Fenrir exploded from the table with a shriek, ripping it off and throwing it at the door. There was nowhere to go and so he leapt up, clinging to the cupboard attached to the ceiling. 

“Jesus Christ!” Claire yelped. 

“I warned you,” Gary reminded her over Fenrir’s unhappy whining.

“Get down right now!” Claire snapped and stomped over to the hanging Fenrir, deftly avoiding his halfhearted kicks. Catching his ankle she tugged but was abruptly softer when she spoke. “Its fine, I won’t do it until you're ready. Just come down and give me another chance.”

Fenrir continued to whine but stopped scrambling to get higher, looking at Claire and her blue hold on his leg. She didn't smell dangerous and nothing in her stance hinted at a lie. With a last low whine he lowered himself to the crowded countertop and pressed into the tight space, legs tucked into the little metal cistern with its spout digging into his back. 

“Can I put the heart monitor back on?” Claire extended the little finger clip and waited. 

Fenrir only complied because the little device was interesting and the pressure of it felt nice. 

“Good. Thats good. Now how about getting out of the sink? Yeah? Thank you.”

Fenrir allowed himself to be coaxed back to the table and sat cross-legged and sullen while she wandered to a box flashing strange sigils. She frowned at and a scribbled on the paper. “Heart rate is very low, especially considering the acrobatics. Did you manage to get any readings before?”

“Not at all.” Gary sounded rueful and sleepy. He rose with a grimace in order to bounce in place in front of the door. Officer Blake appeared to be half asleep, hand resting on her right side and eyes closed. 

“His temperature is higher than average.” Claire noted absently as Fenrir allowed her to sweep another softly beeping device across his forehead. “I can’t do anything more until we clean him off. How did he even get this stuff on him? Rolling in alien intestines?”

Fenrir laughed sharply. It was close enough to the truth to be amusing. 

“You find the weirdest shit funny,” Claire muttered and removed the clamp. “How about we get you cleaned up?”

That sounded splendid. Fenrir dropped off the table, ripped off the coat and marched to the door.

“Oh! Wait, lets put this back on for now.” Claire retrieved the gummy fabric and draped it over Fenrir’s unhappily hunched shoulders as he directed a wounded look over his shoulder. “I know, I know. Its gross but you’re not allowed to run around naked. We’d both get in trouble.”

The grey lady was sputtering and blushing with Officer Blake laughing beside her. Gary merely sighed and opened the door. “I’ll come with.”

“Appreciate it.” 

Keeping a hand fisted in the coat and using it to steer Fenrir as they walked, Claire murmured to Gary “Was he naked when you found him?”

“He was wearing that, and Blake didn't mention anything.”

“So at one point he was. This is too big for him and, now that I’m looking at it, its a woman’s.” Claire directed them into a room with tiled walls that smelled of water and unpleasant soap. “And his feet are in really rough shape. And the scarring on his legs…”

“Yeah, I noticed.” 

Fenrir shrugged out of the coat and bounded to the walled cubicle at the corner of the room that smelled strongly of water, poking at the spout thrusting from the tiled wall and huffing impatiently. Clearly water came from it but he did not know had to make it flow. 

“Can you…?” Claire asked and gestured. “I don’t have a problem with it but, frankly, you’ll probably have better luck.”

“Sure.” Gary removed his uniform to reveal a white undershirt and walked over to join Fenrir. “Stand back.”

By pushing and turning a lever below the spout Gary called up a stream of cold water that fell in in a poor imitation of rain. Fenrir did not care how pathetic it was; he shoved by Gary and stood beneath the fall, sighing happily as it washed away the scratchy dust. 

“Isn't that cold?” Gary asked. “You could wait for it to warm up.”

Fenrir flapped an impatient hand at him before scrubbing fingers through the tangled mass of his hair. Blood, dirt and sticky globs of grey flesh sloughed away. When Gary wordlessly handed over a soapy cloth Fenrir put it to good and immediate use.

“Shit,” Claire muttered.

“Yeah.” Gary sounded more exhausted than ever and Fenrir paused long enough to look at them questioningly. They seemed unhappy.

Well, that was their problem. Fenrir grumbled and returned to washing, delighted when the water began to warm until it filled the air with steam. Once he was clean he danced in place, enjoying the unique sensation of hot water raining down from above. Humans did have the most imaginative inventions. Catching water in his mouth Fenrir rinsed and spat before drinking.

Eventually Gary reached though the curtain of water and switched it off, despite Fenrir’s batting hands and whining. “Sorry kid, we need to get back. Claire’s got some clothes for you.”

Fenrir peered through the steam and noted that she did indeed have an armful of cloth. Bounding over and poking at it, he snatched up the large rectangle of white fabric she handed to him.

“Dry off first.”

The cloth proved absorbent and soft, wicking away the water. Claire attempted to hide behind the armful of clothing when he shook out his hair and sent water flying. She was not successful.

The clothing was similar to Claire’s, thin yet sturdy, with no closures but a an odd sketchiness to the waist of the pants. Simple to wear and soon they emerged triumphant, clean and fully clothed with Fenrir jauntily leading the way back to their little room. 

Another stranger was inside but Fenrir ignored the man in order to climb back atop the table, whose filth streaked paper surface had been replaced. Only once he was properly enthroned did he look at the older human with patchy yellow hair.

“Nurse Temple,” The man intoned pompously and Fenrir narrowed his eyes. As of yet no one had challenged him as the Most Important Person in the room but this human seemed unaware or uncaring of the fact that this was Fenrir’s domain.

“Costner,” Claire replied smoothly. The man bristled at the lack of respect but Fenrir grinned. Claire was a delightful human. 

“The chart appears to be significantly lacking,” Costner continued. “Would you care to explain?”

“I was unable to get readings and up tll now we’ve been trying to get him clean.”

“Was that really a priority?”

“Yeah, actually,” Officer Blake interrupted, opening her droopy eyes to fix them on Costner. “Kid was about as appealing as a landfills under layer.”

“And who are you?” 

“Andrea Blake, responding officer.”

“And patient,” Gary said. 

Officer Blake nodded grudgingly. “And a patient.”

“Well you're not my patient,” Costner waspishly pointed out, “so you can leave now. And who are you?”

“She’s his worker,” Officer Blake said before the grey lady could respond. “When are you going to examine him anyway?”

“Right now, if you will be so kind as to be silent.”

The gloves were snapped into place and Fenrir stared coldly at the man who walked up as though he owned not only the world, but Fenrir.

“What is your name and when were you born?”

Fenrir very pointedly sniffed and turned aside. Costner hissed.

“Nurse, take notes. And you hold still, kid.” When he reached for Fenrir’s hand he received a warning snap of freshly rinsed teeth. “Calm down!”

“Sir, he’s very easily startled. Perhaps ease into it?” Claire offered with unusual demureness. Fenrir slanted a sideways glance towards her.

“I know how to do my job.” Costner asserted tersely, but did not make to grab Fenrir again. Instead he spoke in a flat voice, as though reciting. “Severe scarring to neck and face, forearms and lower legs. Contusions and lacerations on feet and hands, assorted minor injuries on face and arms. Though exact weight is unavailable, visible inspection indicates severe malnutrition.”

Bending for a closer inspection of Fenrir’s folded feet, he frowned. “Evidence of repeated traumatic injury to nail beds and surrounding tissue. I would conclude from the initial evidence the patient has suffered severe and extended physical abuse and neglect.”

Straightening and removing a small hand light from the pocket of his rumpled white coat, he paused to frown but finally addressed Fenrir directly. “I need to look in your mouth. Open wide?”

Mollified by the evidence of caution and eager to display his blunter than normal but still impressive teeth, Fenrir obliged. The light was shone down his throat and the man looked carefully.

“Say ahhh.” When Fenrir only looked blankly at him the man sighed and demonstrated, appearing very thankful when Fenrir complied. 

“Damage to the throat, both exterior and interior. Scar tissue and swelling has narrowed the passage and possibly damaged it extensively. Evidence of trauma to the mouth, burns at a guess. Poor kid.” The ending mumble seemed to embarrass the man and he clicked off the light with a sharp motion. “Order X-rays and a full panel. Get an ultrasound of the throat while you're at it.”

He inspected Fenrir’s eyes and wrote on a pad drawn from his pocket, frowning. “Unusual coloration of iris’s and abnormal reflection of light. Nurse, document the injuries with photo’s and call me when he’s ready for a more thorough examination.”

Costner’s spine popped and crackled as he stood upright. It sounded like meat and bone being crunched in giant teeth and Fenrir considered the doctor with renewed interest as the man walked out the door. 

“I’ll go find a camera then.” Claire paused at the door to beckon Officer Blake and Gary to follow. 

Then it was only Fenrir and the grey lady, who looked just as unhappy with the situation as he did. She pursed her tight mouth and scowled. 

Fenrir rocked in place, staring at the woman until she blanched and broke their gaze to look at her paper strewn lap. She was not an interesting person, neither prey or a toy. The others were gone and if Costner’s tone was any indication nothing pleasant was to be expected from this point on. 

Jumping lightly to the door Fenrir turned to look at the grey lady. She held his gaze for a moment then, very deliberately, turned away. 

Fenrir left in a swirling mass of bodies and post war confusion.


	2. Ch 2

To Fenrir’s eternal surprise living in New York City was a simple matter. There was so much life packed into it, crowding close enough to burst, that there was never a shortage of food or interesting new things to see. 

Learning to live on the shattered streets was a new kind of hunting, a foraging of sorts. He never lowered himself to eat from the bins of refuse as the other street dwellers did, but made a game of snatching food from the unwary. Following delivery people and waiting until their backs were turned to snatch meals straight from their vehicles, watching outdoor cafes until someone left to relieve themselves or refill their drinks before casually swiping the unattended food carelessly left behind. Sometimes he would settle himself somewhere close by and laugh at the ensuing upset as he ate his prizes. 

And the people. Countless layers of humans, stacked atop each in a convoluted hierarchy Fenrir could not yet decipher. The homeless and dispossessed, of which he was considered a member, were the lowest caste and yet were possibly the most unrestricted. Their time was their own and did as they wished. The elite were a mixed lot, not the warriors or scholarly nobles that Fenrir would have thought to be the upper crust, but tradesmen and scientists and people whose sole purpose appeared to be existing for the entertainment of others. 

Of them all Fenrir enjoyed the company of those shunned even by the homeless; the insane chatterers who ambled through the streets with wild eyes and bodies, the feral youths that fought and spilled blood in territorial conflicts, the roaming dogs and cats that haunted allies, parks and warehouses. 

Fenrir enjoyed the park. Almost wild, green and alive like nowhere else in the city, it felt most like the vague memories of home. The ancient wilds that he had roamed with his father, shifting shapes as easily as breathing and sharing knowing through his fathers sparking magic. It was a pale imitation, but close enough to comfort. 

He slept in trees, bushes, rocky caves that the humans did not know. The lakes and pools there were foul but the manmade fountains on the commonly tread paths provided water to drink. And when he desired to sleep in a bed, beneath a roof, it was simple to wander a neighborhood and sniff out empty residences. 

But all this was merely survival. When not occupied with food and shelter, Fenrir learned. 

Television was his most cherished tool. In libraries and homes he entered, he would sit and watch the ‘news’. Fictional programs held little interest because they did not contain the information he sought. Only the programs that dealt with human reality gave him hints of what he wanted. 

It did not take long for him to piece together the brief war that had broken the city. Footage of his father appeared daily, hourly. Always there, recycled and repeated until every instant of every angle was seared into Fenrir’s mind. 

It made no sense. The attack did not posses any of the grace and cunning that was inherently his father. It was loud and crude, a hacking and mauling attack where it should have been swift and dazzling. A daggers bite, a striking serpent. Not a melee without strategy. 

Perhaps most disconcerting was the lack of magic. Oh, there was power there that his father used and twisted and bent, but it was not his. It was a strange force that was raw and insidious, lacking all refinement. A blue that ripped open the sky like claws.

It stank. Fenrir did not like it. Especially did not like it when he was alone, away from the scents and distractions of the city, and could smell its alien taint on him. Somehow his father had used the strange magic to rip him free of his prison and hide him here, on the world his father had tried to conquer. 

Fenrir was grateful for his freedom, but could not fully enjoy it without the one that had returned it to him. 

So Fenrir went to the fortress that had been the focal point of the battle of New York and watched. 

Every day the ones hailed as heroes would leave or return, the tall and straight backed man who seemed more uncomfortable in this world than Fenrir, the proud dark magician who had crafted flying armor, and a pair of cunning warriors who saw and knew of Fenrir’s presence but did nothing about it. These two intrigued him but approaching them seemed reckless, and though recklessness was his nature, the Knowing in his bones whispered caution. For the moment they appeared to think him one of the many ‘groupies’ that lingered outside the tower in the hopes of seeing one of their heroes. 

The building and its surroundings reeked of the blue magic. The energy clung like fungus, the scent seeping into the steel and glass monolith in a way that only time or more powerful magic would erase. The scars of the battle still remained in the form of the single rune suspended high on the towers side. 

Fenrir did not know what to do. He had spent hours observing the place and learning its hidden entrances and exits, following his nose when sight failed him. There were more hidden portals into the tower than one would think and all were sealed.

Strategy had never been his strong point. A creature of instinct and elemental magics, he had never needed to plot a course beyond run from this point to that and kill anything in between. Elegant in its simplicity, his father had noted wryly. 

However if Fenrir was going to learn more of his fathers whereabouts and his own presence in this realm subtlety was needed. His identity could not be known.

But he was so tired of waiting. 

Inevitably his own nature bested him. Sullen, bored and lonely he found himself at the tower in the night, when the city was hushed but not silent. It rose like an insulting gesture, towering over Fenrir and further souring his mood. It made him reckless. 

So when one of the cunning warriors skulked from the back of the building Fenrir approached him.

The man was a head taller than Fenrir but of an average height to his peers, dark blond hair spiky and mussed. The musculature of the man was impressive, made more so by the limber way in which he moved, as though bones were a mere suggestion and not an unbending frame. Not prey, his body and eyes said, but an opponent.

Fenrir loped across the street, snarling at the yellow vehicle that nearly flattened him and skidded to a halt before the warrior. 

The man wore leather, the scent of it strong and real as few things in this realm were. He had been aware of Fenrir from the moment he left the tower but it was clear he was surprised at the suddenness of the approach. And when his eyes locked onto Fenrir’s the curiosity turned instantly to angry aggression.

“Fuck,” the man said, sliding back one heel to attain better balance. His fingers darted into a pocket and emerged with a slender phone, the kind Fenrir had learned was a mark of wealth and status. Fingers tapped over the screen without the aid of the mans piercing eyes. “Listen kid, whatevers going on in your head, its not what you want to do. Just hold on a sec’ and we’ll get you help.”

Help? And not what he wanted to do? How insulting, the intimation that he did not know himself. Fenrir growled and jerked forward, disappointed when the man did not flinch away from the motion. More sullen than ever he turned in a tight circle and snarled.

“Its okay, just hold on.” The odor of adrenaline, sharp and tangy clung like sweat. 

“Stupid!” Fenrir sneered in his ruined voice, bouncing back, forwards, feigning a swipe that the man merely watched. The lack of fear was terribly irritating. “Stupid!”

“Well he has a point there.”

The voice came from behind and Fenrir whirled into a crouch, snarling to mask the surprise. None had crept upon him unaware since arriving on this plain and Fenrir loathed the quickening of his heart.

It was the second cunning warrior, the woman with fire bright hair and changeable eyes. She was not overtly intimidating as her comrade, but was an equal or greater threat because of the appearance of softness. Her painted mouth curled in a smile.

“Hello there. I assume you’re the problem child my friend called me about.”

Her voice was compelling, the kind that would draw out what should remain hidden. But Fenrir was too accustomed to such honey warm tactics and bristled at her. “No!”

“No what? Not a problem child or not the one I was called for?”

Fenrir muttered wordlessly and edged back to keep the two in sight, snapping his attention from one to the other. The man was calmer with her here, the heat of a heart beating too rapidly draining from his skin. 

The woman smiled wider and slicked a lock of hair behind one ear, the motion graceful, a technique to distract. “I’m Natalie. Whats your name?”

Ah! A lie. Nothing of her bespoke the falsehood but the man behind her was not so talented, and he was under the foolish assumption that Fenrir was not clever enough to read him for hints. 

Fenrir pointed a triumphant finger. “Liar!”

The man made a sound like a an engine coughing to life. “Well, Nat, he has a point there.”

“Don’t be so juvenile.” The woman murmured and waved a dismissive hand before turning newly assessing eyes on Fenrir, who grinned in the face of it. When he spoke again it was an amused, smug rumble.

“Liar.”

“While that is true, I don’t think I should go tossing out real names in front of dangerous strangers. You are dangerous, aren't you?”

Fenrir very nearly squealed in joy. “Yes!” 

“Now that that as been established, could you tell us what a dangerous person like yourself is doing here?”

The grin slid away. “Hunting. I am hunting.”

“For who?” The man asked and the adrenaline had returned, spiky in the air. Fenrir nonchalantly scratched the ankle of one foot with the toes of the other.

“For things.”

“I’m just going to be blunt,” the man stated, “and ask why your eyes are glowing. Because I’ve been there, done that and am tired of mind controlling shit.”

Fenrir traced the outline of his eyes and shrugged, a gesture he had become very fond of. “Strange. I do not know.”

Finding a mirror had not been difficult and when confronted with his own image, he had been startled at the pale magic gleam of them. He had been trapped in one form, his preferred form, for so long any difference was off-putting, but the strange magic that cloaked his body now in the thinnest of skins was almost frightening. Would have been, if Fenrir could be frightened by something so stupid.

“Just to clarify,” the man continued with determination, “you don’t feel any homicidal urges, or want to rule the world?”

“Not now,” Fenrir assured him.

The man jerked a little and blinked rapidly, seemingly torn between emotions. Finally with a shake of his head he smiled.

“Thats fair. Just tell me if that changes.”

“Yes.” It was an easy thing to agree to. Conquering a world would be so much more fun if there were people ready to oppose him. 

The lingering smell of energy drew his attention and Fenrir looked up at the building, its width and height blotting out the muddy night sky. Now that he had burst free of indecision he wanted to enter, to find the place where his father had stood and wielded strange power. With a jostling of impatient feet, Fenrir looked at the two warriors and gestured at the tower. 

“The magic? My eyes, this magic. It is here.”

“Magic my ass,” the man muttered while Nat smoothly asked “Want to come in?”

“Yes.” 

Fenrir scuttled between the two widely spaced warriors to the hidden door from which the man had emerged, turning to stare expectably at them. “Now?”

Nat tossed her fire hair and glanced sidelong at her companion, lifting a brow. He nodded. 

“Stay close.” 

With only a light touch to a random place beside the blank expanse of wall the door opened with a hiss and the woman stepped through. Fenrir fell into step behind and the sharp eyed man brought up the end of their train.

The door opened into a tiny room with polished grey walls, ceiling and floor. Fenrir could just barely feel a shifting beneath the floor, hear a whirr as elaborate pieces aligned and clicked into place. Intrigued, Fenrir dropped into a low crouch, head cocked as he listened. Something reading, sensing, cataloguing the people in the room. 

“Whats he doing now?” The man asked, baffled and not caring to hide it. 

“Who knows?” The woman, flippant and unconcerned and vaguely amused. 

Fenrir did not care. There were secrets under the floor. He leaned closer.

But the door locked behind them and another opened in the opposite wall. Reluctantly abandoning the curious floor Fenrir walked into the corridor.

It was well lit but windowless. Narrow. Carpet of silky dark grey gave underfoot like moss and the walls were smooth and ivory hued. The ceiling glowed, not with the lighting units that Fenrir had become accustomed to, but in its entirety. He thought it quite clever but was relieved when they entered a elevator compartment on the end of the hall and traveled up. 

The man had taken out the phone, fingers flying over the screen while he observed Fenrir. Fenrir stared back. 

The compartment chimed, the doors slid open and the scent of his father hit him like a gale force. A whimper rose and died, strangled, in his throat as he leapt into the large room beyond. Where? Was he here? 

Sniffing the air and glancing desperately around the room, Fenrir saw no sign. The scent of his father, familiar as his own, was long dead. Stale. Shoulders hunching and spine curving with unhappiness, Fenrir groaned and dropped onto the floor. 

“Points for drama,” a lively voice sounded from somewhere to the north. 

Fenrir ignored it in favor of curling into a tighter ball of misery, snuffling into up drawn knees as he lay on his side. 

“Lay off,” the sharp eyed man snapped in a tone of warning and irritation.

“I’m just saying, this is the first time anyone has come into my house and curled up crying on the floor. And I thought I was all out of firsts.” 

“Stark.”

At the quiet and flat word from the Nat woman, the other voice lowered into an apologetic if sullen mumble of apology. Fenrir merely rolled onto his other sided and pressed his face in the floor that smelled of his father. 

“Should we do something? I’m gonna do something.”

Blithely disregarding the warning noises from the warriors, Stark dropped into a crouch at Fenrir’s back. “Hey. Kid. Whats wrong?”

Fenrir snuffled in reply and shut his eyes. Let the man leave him to enjoy his misery in peace. 

“Don’t be that way. You came all the way here to the inner sanctum. Why not enjoy it while it lasts, before these killjoys rat you out to Fury?”

Grumbling, Fenrir oozed from a knot into a puddle, flat on the floor with the chill of it tight against his body. 

“Come on, come on. There has to be something you want to do. I have every video game known to man and some that aren’t, every channel ever, you can even spy on other peoples inner sanctums. Uh… What the hell do kids do these days? Never mind, you guys were never kids to begin with. Uh. Ah! You hungry? There’s pizza in the fridge.”

Pizza? Stomach growling, Fenrir lolled his head to the side and cracked one eye. “Food?”

“Ah hah!” Stark crowed and flipped a gesture at the two warriors still lingering by the elevator. “Suck it! My people skills are so awesome I amaze myself.”

Fenrir curled up to a crosslegged sit and looked at Stark. 

Dark, scruffy, smeared with slick black grime and smothered by the sharp aroma of oil, electricity and gasoline, he was far removed from the polished face Fenrir had seen on television screens. He did not seem a fighter, but Fenrir tried not to be fooled; there had been too many hours of film displaying this man soaring high and dealing destruction from his suit.

Still. Food. Fenrir scooted closer and leaned into the mans face with a scowl.

“I am hungry.”  
As though to punctuate, his stomach growled. 

“So I see.” With a clicking of distressed joints and sub audible grinding of bone, the man pushed to his feet and extended a hand to the still seated Fenrir. “Lets go then.”

Fenrir stared at the blackened fingers and sniffed with a pointed lifting of his nose. Gaining his feet was a silent and quick endeavor. Despite and perhaps due to the disdain with which he was being treated, Stark grinned.

“Alright then. Grand tour, starting with the kitchen.”

Stark sauntered behind a long counter and Fenrir took the opportunity to look about the room. 

It was very large, expanding outwards from the elevator to a wall of glass that displayed the city. From this height it appeared almost unreal, so high above the crowded humanity below that the streets spreading like veins were unseen save for slivers between the canyons of buildings. 

The floor was smooth and marble, with a sunken pit lined in soft carpet to the eastern wall. Chairs and couches were there, soft and inviting while the long counter was situated far opposite with tall stools tucked beneath the lip of it. 

Stark opened a cupboard hidden beneath the the counter with a popping hiss of a released seal. With a flourish he deposited a cardboard container on the counter and nudged it towards a rapt Fenrir. 

“Finest pie in Manhattan, even better cold. Dig in.”

With a single leap Fenrir was on the counter and in possession of the box, sliding down the length of the marble top to sit with feet dangling at the end nearest the window, angled to trace the three humans.

“Huh. Quick.” Stark noted and turned to the others. “So whats the story?”

“Nothing we can be sure of at this point.” Nat slid smoothly onto stool across from Stark while the first man wandered behind the counter to the refrigerator, removing a bottle of orange liquid and rolling it down the marble to Fenrir. “All we know is that he’s been hanging around the tower for a few weeks. Clint has seen him a few times, but didn't notice the eyes until now.”

“They are pretty freaky.” Stark declared musingly, propping his head on a hand and staring unabashedly at Fenrir. “Whats you’re name?”

Swallowing a bite of delicious pizza Fenrir hummed and answered “Finn.”

“First name? Last name? Nickname? Though you don’t look very aquatic to me, so that last one seems unlikely.”

Fenrir rolled a doleful eye and scoffed around another mouthful.

“Even complete and likely mind controlled strangers think you're full of shit.” 

“Shut up, featherbutt.”

In a few minutes the pizza was gone and Fenrir turned his full attention to the three humans arrayed further up the counter. Stark had filled a glass with burning alcohol and chunks of ice and was drinking it while Clint rummaged in the refrigerator. Nat merely sat in comfortable silence, seemingly above the triviality of her companions antics.

Fenrir scooted around to face them fully.

“Where is Loki?”

Oh. Well, there went his caution. It had never done much for him anyway. 

Stark looked over the rim of his glass. “Gone back to Asgard Aliensville, so far as I know, and I know a lot.”

Fenrir slumped. This was an unfortunate thing. If father had been taken back to Asgard that meant for the moment he was out of reach and Fenrir was left here, to hide and survive on his own. Even Hel was out of reach, unless he was willing to skate the edges of death to reach her. 

“Did he do the…” Stark gestured to his eyes and raised a brow.

“Yes?” It was the only answer that made sense but there was no proof beyond the Knowing. Still, father was the only one who would ever desire to free him. “Yes.”

“Damn.” Stark drained the glass in a single long gulp before slamming it atop the counter. Fenrir felt the vibration of it through the marble. 

“For once I agree with Stark.” Clint did not seemed pleased by this. Nat shook her head at the both of them and turned to look at Fenrir.

“Who are you exactly? And your family, where are they?”

Fenrir frowned. It was difficult to choose what to tell them and where to lie. They could not know who he was but did that mean he could not tell the truth about family and siblings? Confused and aggravated, Fenrir flopped sideways over the counter and sighed. 

“Simpler questions then.”

“Can they get any simpler than that?” Stark mused and yelped when Clint slapped the back of his skull in passing.

Nat serenely ignored them and kept her soft edged attention on Fenrir. 

“Why did you come to the tower?”

Why had he? It was a foolish and spontaneous and there was no answer to that question. He shrugged. The woman continued with limitless patience.

“Did you come here to hurt anyone?”

Not particularly, though a little mayhem was always a possibility. “No.”

“Thats good. Thank you for that.” The smile curled higher and her attention was as warm and inviting as sunlight. Fenrir liked it but was not fooled. “Can you give me any reason, any at all, why you came here? I’m not picky.”

“Hmm.” Fenrir gave it more thought. “It smelt of magic. The cold magic.” 

“My tower stinks?” Stark hissed to Clint, who groaned. 

“By magic you mean the Tesseract.”

Fenrir was content to assume she was correct and nodded.

“And the Tesseract did something to you?”

“Freed me.” Of this he was sure and had no compunction with saying so. 

Stark scoffed, as though this was possibly the one thing he had not considered and the one thing he wouldn't believe. Fenrir bristled.

“Saved me and put me here. Safe.”

“Saved you?” Stark muttered and then laughed. “From what?”

He flinched at the thought, a quiver running once beneath his skin with a cold ripple. Gleipnir’s cords as slender and lovely as ribbons as they tightened, bit deeper and tighter with every effort to free himself, tight to the bone. The swords thrust between raging, weak jaws forced wide, cold steel down a throat choking on blood. 

The taste of clever Tyr’s flesh as he sacrificed his own hand to betray one who thought him a friend. 

A hand too small and lacking the claws, strength and durability to provide proper defense rose to a mouth that housed blunted teeth instead of fangs. Fretful fingers tracing the scars there. These scars and those who caused them were the only things in his many centuries that had taught him terror and made him feel small.

“Shit. Look what you did!”

Unexpectedly it was warrior Clint who snapped at Stark, stalking from behind the counter to come close to Fenrir and stopped within an arms length. Eyes that cut like diamond settled steadily on Fenrir’s snarling, scowling face.

“Listen. I get you can’t tell us everything. I don’t really know why that is but I promise, I don’t care. So tell me what you can and we’ll keep people from hurting you again. Deal?”

The hand that was extended, wide and callused and dexterous as a musicians, did not flinch from Fenrir’s instinctive snap. It hung between them like question. He wanted to respond but could only question in return.

“What do you want of me?”

“Nothing. At least not right now.”

Fenrir rocked from side to side, hands braced on knees and feet sole to sole on the countertop. “Won’t give me back?”

“No.”

Fenrir grinned sly and sharp as he met the mans steady eyes. “Give me back, I will kill you as I go.”

“Sounds fair.” The hand shifted closer. “Deal?”

“Yes.”

With a laugh Fenrir grabbed the hand and bore down with calculated strength, the man’s bones grinding under the pressure but not snapping like brittle sticks. Clint did not so much as tense in response, only lifted a brow at Fenrir’s low rumble, returning the grip, which almost made up for the lack of pain Fenrir had hoped to cause.

“I don’t know whether to be touched or disturbed.”

“Stark.” Nat the warrior murmured warningly. 

“No, seriously, since when does tall, broad and hawkey’ bond with feral children?” Stark muttered. A brilliant white smile was flashed at Fenrir. “Not that I’m complaining. For the record I don’t want anything from you either and if someone comes looking to take you back to wherever you came from I’ll be delighted to curb stomp them.”

Then his head cocked, birdlike and quick, interest mercurial as it slid sideways. “Wait. Actually I do need something from you. Can me and Bruce take a look at you? Be quick, promise.”

Fenrir found himself glancing at Nat. Not as though he were seeking her opinion of course. But… she had been so stable. Familiar in her deception and cunning. Surely it wasn't unnatural to gauge her reaction to the request. 

“If anyone needs to poke at you, Bruce is the best candidate.”

“What about me? I’m good at that too!”

Nat sighed and rose with a graceful trailing of fingertips over marble that was somehow menacing. “I wouldn't trust you with my car, Stark. That being said I’m sure Bruce will keep you under control.”

“Bruce?” Fenrir whispered to Clint.

“He’s cool. A doctor, but not pushy. You’ll like him.”

Fenrir recalled Costner and made a face. “I do not like doctors. Stupid.”

“Some are but not Bruce.”Nat had managed to glide stealthily nearer and smiled in the face of Fenrir’s hiss. “Just let them look you over.”

He glanced at the empty cardboard box and struck upon a thought. Bargaining was not so fun as hunting but father had taught him enough to know never to do something for nothing, unless that something was enjoyable in and of itself. Doctors were not enjoyable. 

“I will. But food after.”

“Sure thing kid.” Stark promised enthusiastically. “What do you want?”

After some thought Fenrir nodded decisively. “Everything.”

Stark choked and then laughed boisterously, the scent of his breath harsh and hot with alcohol.


	3. Ch 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of the possibility of sexual abuse, though there is none. Please let me know if the rating should go up and whether I should tag anything. Its my first time posting, so I don't know the rope yet

The elevator was stuffier with four people in it. Fenrir tucked himself into the corner next to the door and pointedly kept the three humans in sight. Stark stood in the very center of the chamber, thumbs tucked into the front pockets of dirty jeans and rocking on his heels as he whistled. The tune was familiar. Likely something Fenrir had heard in passing. 

The two humans stood in the back corners with space between them. Fenrir suspected that while they found him intriguing, they were more wary than Stark, who found Fenrir to be an exciting challenge of some sort. 

The doors slid open soundlessly. A fact Fenrir was instantly suspicious of considering the ride upwards had ended with a chime. None of the the others appeared disconcerted so he kept his silence and his pride.

This new level was vastly different to it predecessor. The doors opened to a wide corridor with large and evenly spaced windows opposite. The floor was hard and sleek, not marble but an unbroken expanse of something glasslike. A discreet tapping assured Fenrir that its density was high and that there was a faint flexibility to it that stone lacked. Even he would find destroying it a challenge. 

But what caught and held his attention was a hunched man waiting several lengths up the corridor. A rumpled white coat that was longer and of heavier material than the aggravating Costners but similar in cut hung on his shoulders. Unruly brown hair tumbled into glasses perched on a frown scrunched nose.

The man was nondescript and bland and absolutely not what he appeared. 

Fenrir set himself in the corridor, ignoring the humans that stopped behind him. This man clothed in a white coat and false submission was dangerous. Power condensed into a space too small to contain it. What bound that power? Could it be turned on Fenrir?

“Who are you?” He demanded and bent his knees, lowering into a half crouch. In the face of this he was preparing not for defense but for outright retreat and that would have shamed him had the coiled power not been so intimidating. This was not the battlefield for a fight between them and he hoped the man knew it.

“I’m Bruce Banner.” A sickly, awkward smile fluttered uncertainly on the mans face. A hand rose to settle on the back of his neck but wavered when Fenrir dropped lower. The scent of distress and unhappiness that clung to the man intensified, yet a sharp tang of anger shifted beneath it like smoke. Fenrir seethed at his own weakness and snarled.

“I am not afraid of you.”

Soft brown eyes blinked. “Alright?”

“I am not,” Fenrir repeated. 

“Sure you're not!” Stark said cheerily and his hand lowered to Fenrir’s shoulder. 

No. He was not to be touched. With a rumble so low it ached Fenrir dropped to the floor and spun, lashing faster than even momentum could account for to drag his nails over the foolish humans wrist. The iron of blood was thick enough to taste as Fenrir rolled to the wall and pressed against it. 

“No!”  
Pressure from Bruce Banner. A wave of raw energy that plucked the threads of reality like strings. Fenrir braced himself against it. 

“Fucking ow.” Stark muttered sulkily. Fenrir spared a fraction of his attention to see the man hold up his bleeding wrist and pout at it. “God, you’re touchy. Sorry, won’t do it again.”

“Liar.” Fenrir rasped. 

“Okay, yeah. I probably will do it again but not anytime soon. You’re worse than a cat.” Stark angled towards the frozen Bruce Banner and grinned. “Chill. Its just a scratch and my fault to boot. Don’t go green just yet.”

Confusing. What did that mean? Fenrir edged back towards the closed elevator, only know realizing Clint and Nat had fallen back as well, the latter reeking of adrenaline with a hand tucked into the small of her back, beneath the light shirt she wore. A weapon was there, Fenrir was sure. 

“Yeah,” Bruce Banner said on a shaky puff of air. “Yeah. Okay, sorry.”

“If anyone should be saying sorry its the brat.” Stark beckoned and Fenrir was so startled at the sheer audacity that he froze. “Come here and introduce yourself properly. Ugh. I never thought I would be the one preaching good manners. Don’t like. Natasha, you take over.”

The tension unwound. Fenrir paused in his retreat to reassess Stark. There was no trace of fear about him; he was perfectly at ease. 

“It would do you good to expand your horizons.” Nat’s hand fell back to her side.

“Sweetheart, I expand other peoples horizons, or haven't you seen my equipment? And I mean that it every way it could possibly be taken.”

“Stark, keep pushing and she’ll kick your ass while I take video.” Clint said. 

“Having my ass kicked by the Black Widow would be a privilege.”

“And fatal.” Nat sidled to Fenrir and smiled. “Don’t worry, Finn. Dr Banner would never hurt you.”

“Not now,” Fenrir agreed and glanced stealthily at the quiet doctor who stood with hands embedded in pockets. The energy of him was so different to the appearance. However Fenrir was adaptable and the dissonance was losing its force. “Hello. I am Finn.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Will you… uh, follow me?”

“I will, yes.” keeping the width of the corridor between them Fenrir trotted up to walk alongside the man. “Where are we going?”

“To my lab. Just, turn here.”

Fenrir veered through the doorway that slid silently open, skin pebbling at the abrupt chill. The room was large and well lit, filled with machinery he had never seen and with a number of screens that hovered in the air like ghosts. Symbols and wavering lines danced over them and Fenrir wandered to the nearest with an inquiring huff. “Magic?”

Bruce Banner laughed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “No. Its a hologram.”

“I made it.”

“Everyone knows you made, Tony. You won’t allow anything but Stark tech in the building.” Bruce Banner looked back at Fenrir and relaxed to find him jabbing repeatedly through the glowing screen. “Though he does do good work.”

While Stark visibly and verbally preened at the praise Fenrir shrugged. He still thought it magic, but it did not hold the flavor or energy of his fathers illusions, just the tingle of electricity low beneath the transparent screens. Still, if it could not be disrupted by a hand it was boring and Fenrir spun to regard Bruce Banner with puffed up expectation. “Now?”

“Uh, yes, I suppose so. Go climb up on that table.”

Following the pointed finger Fenrir approached the white table towards the back of the room, caged in by screens that did not float but were properly anchored in thin casings. A bulbous white pendulum hung from the ceiling above it, filled with faint chittering and clicking. He chittered very quietly back but received nothing in response. Good, that meant no creatures were going to drop from overhead. A quick circling of the table to ensure nothing lurked beneath and he jumped onto it. 

Bruce Banner and Stark were bunched together by the monitors but the others had wisely chosen to hang back, far enough apart to not impede the others movements in the event of attack. Fenrir almost wished he could oblige them. They would be worthy adversaries. 

“Just sit still as you can. The machine above you will do a full body scan and we’ll be able to skip a lot of the boring stuff. Though we will need to draw blood.”

Fenrir froze obediently in place. He did not like being still but he was good at it. 

Bruce Banner glanced up from a screen and frowned slightly, while Stark gasped in smothered mirth beside him. “You can breath.”

That certainly made it easier.

The chittering overhead increased and the bulb rotated slowly, slowly. Fenrir braced for impact, just in case the thing broke free of its moorings and tried to splatter him.

After several minutes the quiet mutterings of the two monitor watchers had fallen into complete silence. Sweat tinged the air, acidic with something unpleasant and Fenrir shifted back along the table. The pressure had returned but different, focused and stronger but rigidly controlled. 

Stark swallowed, coughed into a fist and beamed a false smile. “So, good news is you have all your organs!”

Fenrir perked at that. Several of the Aesir had threatened to steal his lungs to sell to the dwarves as bellows and he had lost time often enough to wonder if they had managed to do so. 

“And healthy condition too!”

Even better. But the false brightness of the mans tone was as obvious as gold plating. Fenrir grumbled.

“Your bone structure is really nice?” Stark offered in appeasement. It did not work.

“Tony, with all due respect, shut up.”

Bruce Banner’s face was tight and pale, arms crossed and the fingers of one hand tapping rapidly on his elbow. 

“Its bad?” Clint called from across the room. “Is it the tesseract?”

“No, no. The readings for that are actually very low. I’d almost say residual?” Stark tapped at a monitor, brows furrowed. “Its all the scar tissue on the little dudes face. Its… worse than it looks.”

“Considering it looks fucking terrible thats not good news.”

“Not little,” Fenrir interjected sourly. “I am compact.”

Stark cocked a finger at him. “Thats actually true. Kids bone density is unreal.”

“Which makes all the breakage that much worse,” Brace Banner said morosely and silence followed after.

Fenrir waited for all of a few heartbeats to sigh. “I can move?”

Stark glanced up from the monitor, blinking. “Oh. Yeah, go for it.”

Unwinding himself from his cross-legged position, Fenrir brought one knee to his chest and dangled the other leg over the side, kicking it in time to Bruce Banner’s tapping fingertips. The doctor caught on quickly and dropped his arms with a flush. 

Fenrir cocked his head. “What now?”

The doctor glanced at Nat and Clint who somehow managed to set themselves stubbornly in place without moving at all, and to Stark, who was squinting at Fenrir. With a sigh, the doctor walked over. 

“Can I examine you?”

Was that not the reason for Fenrir’s presence here? “Yes.”

“Alright.” The doctor seemed to steel himself for coming unpleasantness and pulled gloves from his pocket, which was unfortunate but not at all surprising. It seemed to be a staple of the physicians in this realm. “Could you take off your shirt?”

Fenrir complied but prefaced it with a glare. “Mine.” It was massive and soft and warm and easily the favorite thing he had stolen since waking on this plane. 

Bruce Banner’s mouth quirked just slightly. “Of course. No one will take away.”

Just in case, Fenrir stowed it in a bundle behind his back.

Distress. The scent of it, the feel of it like scratchy wool on his skin flooded outward from Bruce Banner. This close Fenrir could hear the quickening of the humans heart and feel a surge of heat from fast flowing blood. He looked warily at the unmoved face behind shaggy hair and stubble and was again struck by the dissonance of what he sensed versus what he saw. 

“Damn.” Clint said, dragging and low. The Nat woman hushed him with a gesture. 

An unfamiliar feeling of shame rose. Fenrir knew what this form looked like and knew that the scars of Gleipnir were naked and bare on this furless skin. Exploring his surroundings had come after exploring his body, bipedal and unbound, and so he knew that curling trail of thick, dead skin intimately. It was the state of things and so he was unbothered by it. So why was having them bared to another so unpleasant?

“Can I touch?”

Fenrir lifted his chin. “Hurt me and I hurt you.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

Good. Fenrir did not want to fight this dual natured man right now. Possibly in the future. He extended an arm. 

Long fingers wrapped gently around his wrist. The gloves were cool and smooth, not sticking as Claire’s had. These slid like silk over his skin without clinging. 

“These are old. Did anyone take care of them when… it happened?”

“Father tried.” Fenrir sighed and slumped at the memory. It had been for naught, as the flesh healed over the bindings only to rip anew with every attempt he made to break free. And father had been forbidden to try again. He of course did not obey and the consequences had been terrible.

“Your father did?” Bruce Banner’s voice was pitched to a gruff softness, encouraging a response. The glove covered fingers prodded and pressed and glided up the length of Fenrir’s arm and he watched curiously. 

“Yes. He was punished.” 

“Why?” Stark asked. He sounded genuinely baffled.

“To aid a monster is to be monstrous.” Fenrir replied with a shrug.

The hand on his wrist spasmed. But it did not tighten and did not hurt, so he was content to keep himself still. 

“A monster?” Stark laughed. There was a rough edge to it, a meanness that lacked direction or target. “You?”

“I.”

“Can you feel this?” Bruce Banner asked and Fenrir looked at the prodding finger above his elbow. He shook his head. 

“Heaviness, but no more.”

“Only pressure then.” The hand moved upwards. “Here?”

“I feel it. Your hand is warm.”

The doctor smiled with blunt teeth and the waxy stillness of his face softened. “Good.”

“So nerve damage,” Stark noted and edged closer. “Reversible?” 

He did not sound hopeful.

Bruce Banner thinned his mouth and shook his head. “No. The scan indicated the damage is to the bone. Its a miracle he has limbs, let alone any use of them.”

Hah. He was miraculous. Fenrir snickered and leaned closer to the discordant scents of the doctor. 

“I think he likes you,” Stark said. Fenrir did not comment, as he did not dislike the doctor, or anyone else here. And the doctors steady hands were reassuring; a persons touch was more telling than even their scent. 

The doctor carefully checked the other arm, lingering over his hands and flexing his fingers like reeds. He lingered over the thick nails.

“Can I see your legs?” He asked abruptly and Fenrir promptly twisted his hips to kick out of the loose pants he had been given by a ‘shelter’ after the battle.

Stark snorted as the clothing sailed between the two humans to land across a monitor. “Well, no one can accuse him of being shy.”

“Why aren't you wearing shoes?” The doctor asked as he ignored Stark entirely.

Fenrir hissed. “Stupid. Like dead rocks.”

“Don’t like them, huh?” Stark commiserated. “I understand.”

Fenrir favored him with grim nod. 

“Same as his arms,” Bruce Banner muttered to himself. He poked and pinched and prodded, asking where sensation remained before kneeling to catch hold of Fenrir’s right foot. 

“You have a lot of healing cuts here. How did that happen?”

“On the field of battle.” Fenrir declared proudly.

“You mean during the invasion?”

“The battle, yes. Opened my eyes and the world was breaking.” But he was free. 

“Opened your eyes? Were you sleeping?”

“No.” Fenrir wriggled his toes and cocked his head. “I was bound and then I was here.”

“What about these?” Gentle fingers traced the outline of empty nailbeds.

Fenrir grimaced. “Punishment.”

“How long ago?”

He stopped. How long? When had it been done? All he remembered was hazy desperation when his fathers presence vanished, not a spark to be felt no matter how Fenrir searched. The terror that loneliness had created when Hel whispered that she too did not feel that familial bond any longer. He had screamed and strained for days, for the first time in so many ages attempting to break free. Remembered shrieking into the one eyed face of his fathers father who came to demand silence. Remembered the anger on that face at being denied and the burning of claws torn free. All he recalled after that was formless, animal madness, blank exhaustion. Nothing.

He whined and scratched at the tabletop. When? 

“It doesn't matter.” The grip on his ankle tightened and dragged him back to now. “It doesn't matter.”

It didn’t. Fenrir shook off the quivering of his taut muscles. When did not matter in the face of Now. Now was not then. 

“Good.” The hand squeezed once before falling away and Bruce Banner stood. Stark had stalked away and was pacing the length of the room as he scowled at his moving feet. 

Nat and Clint hung like shadows in the corners. 

“So,” The doctor said as he removed a penlight from another pocket, clicking it on. He smiled as he spoke. “I’m going to check your throat, okay?”

This was something Fenrir knew and so he scooted to the edge of the table. “I say ah, yes?”

“Thats right. Open up.”

Stark whistled as he stared at a screen. “No wondered he sounds like a fifty year old chain smoker.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Finn, how did you get these scars?”

“Swords,” Fenrir hummed in satisfaction. In the confusion after he bit off treacherous Try’s hand he had slipped the fetters low enough to snap at the other Aesir. The moment of partial freedom had been short lived, but it was a point of pride. “They bound me and I bit them. Swords to keep my mouth open.”

“Good for you,” Clint offered. Fenrir chortled in agreement.

“Theres not much I can do for that either.” The doctor muttered unhappily. “I’m going to take some blood, alright? Just put your arm out like this.”

When Bruce Banner retrieved a short length of slender, pliable ribbon from a drawer, Fenrir snapped at him. “No!”

The doctor looked down at the ribbon and winced. “Right. Sorry, tying something on you would be a bad idea. Sorry.”

The ribbon vanished back into its drawer, Fenrir staring after it with distaste. Bruce Banner carefully grasped his arm and circled a hand around it, frowning thoughtfully before stopping to be eye to eye. “Can I squeeze your arm, just for a moment?”

Fenrir did not point out that he already had and merely nodded. 

“Thank you. Tony, come help me, we need another pair of hands. Just hold onto his arm like that, good. Finn, there’ll be a pinch. Okay Tony, let go now.”

Fenrir watched as the needle in his arm emptied blood into little vials, each one switched out for another when it was half full. The needle device was very clever, not bleeding between the changes and he wanted to investigate it further, but it was pulled quickly form his arm and thrown into a nearby red bin.

“That went easier than I expected,” Stark said. Bruce Banner was holding a small bundle of cotton against the tiny wound in the crease of Fenrir’s elbow. 

“I can’t picture him being the squeamish sort,” he mumbled, and removed the cotton. “Good clotting factor. Barely bled at all.”

“What now, Bruce Banner?” Fenrir scrambled into a comfortable sprawl atop the table and fussed with the bright green bandage applied to his arm. It was small and sticky and just as clever as the needle had been. 

“Just Bruce is fine. And thats all for now, unless Tony has anymore idea’s?”

“Nope,” Stark popped and beckoned for Fenrir to follow. “Though I have a bargain to fulfill, right kid?”

“Food?” Fenrir asked hopefully and launched off the table with a yipping laugh at the nod he received. At the door he paused only long enough to grin at Bruce. “Farewell.”

Tony Stark was irrefutably the most jaded person he knew and he liked it that way. It was a glowing badge of dishonor he wore with pride and style, and until today he had assumed there wasn't much left in the world that would shock him. Surprise him, yes. Intrigue him, certainly. Anger him, definitely. But shock him? Not so much. 

Thumping into a brand-new and unburnt swivel chair, he rolled across the floor to his desk and prepared to get some knowledge.

“Files up, J?”

“Of course, sir.” Icons fluttered over the screen, reports from Bruce’s exam, footage of the towers newest occupant from every conceivable angle and a live feed from the penthouse lounge where the kid had fallen into a food coma half an hour ago. “I have compiled all the video of the last week in which Finn has been seen around the tower and surrounding streets. Data retrieval from government servers still processing.”

“Great. Alert me immediately when the kid wakes up.”

“Yes, sir. And if I may inquire, do you wish me contact miss Potts?”

Tony paused in his scan of the Hawkeye vs Wildchild standoff of several hours ago and winced. “Shit. Just…. tell her not to be surprised to find someone crashing on our couch and to approach with caution.”

“Would that not cause her distress, sir?”

“Okay, okay. Give her the rundown but don’t go too in detail. And remind her I’m handling it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Awesome.”

Tony ran the video of first contact at three times normal speed. He had to admit, it was amusing. A superspy/assassin/avenger trying to find a way to avoid hitting a probably mind controlled kid and getting insulted for his trouble. And the kid was amazing to watch. Weirdly quick and aggressive, face like rubber as he pouted. Funny as all hell, almost funny enough to overlook his ruined face. 

Scars curved over his nose and down his face, under a bony jaw to wrap around his throat like a noose, thinner scars lashing over the entirety of his head and mouth. Only thing worse than his face was that voice. Like every word was gravel fed through a wood chipper, rolled through mud and squeezed out between a crumpled muffler. 

Flicking to the full body medical scans, made awkward by the strange position in which they had been taken, Tony desperately wanted a drink. Christ, the damage this kid sustained was unreal. If he had been car he’d totaled ten times over without a part left to salvage. There was scarring on his fucking bones, Jesus Christ.

Couldn't drink now, though. It'd make it easier but it also might make him slow. Make him miss something. The kid was a damn mystery and barely any of it had to do with the Tesseract signature holding at a steady base level. 

“Miss Potts has asked me to inform you she is on her way home and should arrive tonight.”

“What? No! Tell her— Ugh, never mind, patch me through. Audio only.”

The line rang once before Pep’s clipped voice came through. “Tony?”

“Yeah, hey Pep. JARVIS says you're getting ready to fly back?”

“Of course I am. I’ll be there a little after midnight.” The sound of rustling papers (almost unforgivably old school but still annoyingly endearing. It seemed Tony was cursed to like people who preferred analogue.) and low conversation floated over the line.

“But you’ve been talking about this merger for literal months. I’m not kidding, even Happy was sick of hearing about it.” The footage of the past week unspooled over the screens, zoomed in on Finn skulking in the periphery and scowling at the tower like an old man watching a dog shit on his lawn. 

“Tony, you have a severely abused and completely unknown child in our tower, who might or might not be under alien mind control. After the Chitauri I didn't want to leave at all, but you promised nothing would happen. Somehow, I think this qualifies as something.”

“Pep, baby, I—“

“Call me baby again and I will bury you under so much paperwork you won’t be able to close your eyes without seeing fine print.” The threat was made all the more terrifying by the knowledge that she could and would carry it out.

“Sorry. But you can’t drop everything and come running back.” Tony grimaced and grudgingly gave his full attention to the call. “Pep, I don’t want this getting out. The assassin twins have agreed not to tattle to Fury yet, and the kid can probably be convinced to stay put. But if you come charging home on your white jet people are going to want to know why.”

“And you think I’ll tell them the truth. Please Tony, I’ve lived in your pocket long enough to lie convincingly. I am gracefully handing the merger deal to one of my many proteges due to a family emergency. It certainly helps that one of my cousins is giving birth at this very moment and will swear that I came directly to her side, roses and teddy bear in hand.”

“See, why won’t anyone collaborate with my lies?” Tony demanded.

“Because you lie for kicks. So I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Alright, yeah. Thanks Pep.”

“One last thing; call Steve, and be polite when he turns up.”

“But I don’t want to circle the wagons!” Tony whined. “There are already three out of five, thats good enough. And the ones here are at least useful. Whats captain analogue going to do, show the kid how to use a rotary?”

“Goodbye Tony.”

Tony spent a nanosecond feeling insulted at the sudden disconnection before groaning and theatrically flopping over the back of the chair. He waved listlessly at the ceiling. 

“J, contact the good captain and tell him whats up. No need to extend an explicit invitation.”

“Are we still not on speaking terms with captain Rogers, sir?”

“Keep your snark on the servers, J. Any hits from big brother?”

“There are several missing persons reports dating back the past fourteen years that could prove a possible match, however preliminary facial identification scans indicate none are a solid positive. There is a report of a John Doe matching his description just after the incident. I would estimate a 98.7 % probability that it is Finn.”

“Perfect. Should I read or can you summarize?”

“Sadly the details are sparse. After a brief examination the child in question disappeared. The officer who made first contact with him reported that he was found looting a restaurant and was nonverbal for the entirety of their encounter. He had no clothing or identification.”

“Well, shit. At least our scans say there was no… ah…” Tony trailed off. 

“No overt evidence of forced intercourse?” JARVIS suggested. 

“Yeah. That.” The scans scrolled over the screen, the program straightening the crumpled position into straight lines and layers based on body system. “Though that doesn't mean there weren't less intrusive methods used. Damn. I really hope that isn't the case. What there is is already sick as fuck.”

“I concur.” JARVIS said crisply. “I have analyzed his speech patterns. Despite a tendency towards archaic word choices, there is no recognizable accent.”

“Great. Is there nothing we can use to narrow things down?”

“Dr Banner is scrutinizing the blood work as we speak and is theorizing the child is not quite human.”

Tony groaned harder, dropping his head with a thud on the desktop. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Doesn't really make it better.”

“Shall I connect you to Dr Banner?”

“Nah. Not unless he asks for it. For now we’ll give the information a look through on our own and touch base later. You just monitor the brat and keep an eye out for incoming freaks.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Tony muttered gloomily.

The full skeletal scan hovered above the desk, rotating slowly with blooming highlights of color appearing over the bones in accordance with severity. The worst of the damage was to the arms and legs. Something tough had been wrapped around the limbs tightly enough to slice to the bone in the less padded areas such as the wrists and ankles. The bones there had been notched but were now patched with calcium deposits, almost like calluses. 

It wasn't a stretch to say every bone in the kids body had been broken at some point or other. Evidence of breakage and re-breakage of the legs, arms and ribs were in the double or triple digits. A particularly nasty injury to the clavicle had healed badly, crooked and bulky were the bizarre calcium deposits had overcompensated. 

Several fingers and toes had also healed incorrectly. Not badly enough to deform but close. And the nails had been ripped out repeatedly, resulting in actual deformation of the nails. Thick, gnarled and tough. And the malnutrition was flat-out sad. No wonder he wanted to eat ‘everything’.

Tony could sympathize. He’d been with the ring for months and sometimes the only thing tying him to pseudo sanity was the determination to someday revisit every purveyor of junk food that had once been banned by his nutritionist, and he’d only been a captive a mere fraction of the time evidence suggested Finn had.

He flipped quickly to another rundown.

The trauma to his mouth was just… bizarre. Sickening too, but also just plain weird. According to the kid someone had kebabed him with swords, but the angles of the scarring were all wrong. It look more like he’d been impaled on a number of meathooks, starting at the bridge his nose, curving inwards and down through the roof of his mouth and tongue, then out beneath his chin. There had been something, or more likely things, stabbed down his throat too, knocking out several back molars that were inexplicably growing back. 

Tony had to admire the resilience of the kid, even it it was unnatural and a tad freaky. 

All in all Tony could barely imagine the kind of hell the little guy had lived in. Fuck, maybe it had been hell, who knew with Loki? And Tony would bet all his millions that the horned douche had something to do with all this. 

“Miss Romanoff is requesting entry, sir.”

Tony smirked. “Requesting or demanding?”

“She is requesting that I open the door but I would guess she does not care about your opinion on the matter.”

“Yeah, that’d be my guess too. Let her in.”

Seconds later she appeared in all her red headed glory, heralded by the clicking of practical low heels. It was a courtesy she didn't often extend to anyone, let alone Tony, but he appreciated that non-ninja gesture. She nudged over another swivel chair and settled quietly into place beside him.

“Whats up, firecracker?” Tony asked as jovially as he could. Which was a great deal.

“Don’t call me that,” Romanoff responded just as politely.

“How about hot top?”

“How about Natasha, while you still have a tongue to say it with?”

“Fair point. So, Natasha, what can I do for you?”

The blue glow of the holograms washed the color from her face, sparked on her eyes. Her hair had been pulled back into a short braid tight against her skull and the bare edge of a widows bite peeked beneath the edge of a soft sleeve as she flipped the braid back. 

“What’s your opinion on Finn?”

“Straight to the point for once,” Tony sourly noted. Just when beating around the bush with spy double-talk would have been a good distraction. “My opinion is pretty obvious, isn't it?”

“Please. Nothing about you is obvious unless you want it to be. Except for the size of your ego.”

“Thanks?” Tony wasn't sure but warily decided to take that as a compliment. In return he didn't evade the question. “He’s fucked up and I want to go fuck up the people that did it. Thats pretty much it at the moment.”

“And thats the extent of the helpfulness I thought your opinion would Prvide.” Natasha sighed.

Tony bristled and spun the chair. “Then why ask?”

Instead of answering she flicked the hologram into a faster orbit, enlarging it with a gesture copied direct from Tony. Seriously, it was a perfect recreation. 

“In my business I’ve seen a lot of brainwashed people, and children specifically. A juvenile mind is so elastic and malleable, after all.” Another stolen gesture dragged the ghostly nervous system overlay to the side to spin on its own. “Finn does not display any of the markers of a programmed child, aside from those common to victims of abuse. In fact it seems he wasn't groomed to be or for anything. The reverse, actually.”

“So you don’t think he’s here working some shadow masters agenda?” Tony asked. If he really hoped for affirmation that was his business. 

“Not knowingly. Theres always the possibility he was turned loose as a part of something larger. A catalyst. But he at least thinks he’s here of his own free will.”

“Thank God,” Tony gasped and laughed ruefully when a questioning brow quirk was aimed his way. “Just, I really didn't want to blast a kid. It would suck.”

“Especially one already victimized, yes?”

“That too.” He looked at the small square of live feed from the lounge. The kid was still conked out, legs flopping over the arm of the couch and arms wrapped around a pillow. Stupidly heartwarming.

“Stark, I’m going to warn you now. Do not get attached. He appears to be a victim but even victims, sometimes especially victims, can be the most dangerous.” Natasha was watching Tony with the kind of intensity usually reserved for evil alien overlords. 

“I’m not an idiot. Of course I know that,” Tony snapped. 

“No. I don’t think you do. Going through the sort of things he has can make a person cunning and cold. Many of the very best predators were once prey.”

“I know! But you already said he doesn't read like a double agent so I’m going to treat him like the kid he is. And, Agent Romanoff, as long as you’re on my property you won’t be interrogating him every time you cross paths. Got it?”

They stared at each. The dim workshop hummed with sleeping tech and the quiet chirps of AI bots. It was very dramatic, in Tony’s opinion. Something straight out of a thriller action flick. The grand face off between opponents that would inevitably culminate in a final boss scene that would rock the house. 

Natasha hummed thoughtfully and with a flick of her braid the tension dissolved. “I’m not a monster, Tony. I won’t stalk the child through the place like a deranged villain. I will say your paternal instincts are cute, though.”

“What paternal instincts?” Tony scoffed, spinning back to the screens. “He’s just mine for the foreseeable future. He came to my tower and ate my food and is sleeping on my couch, so he’s pretty much mine. Haven't you heard possession is nine tenths and all that?”

“Adorable,” Natasha enunciated crisply. “Is your biological hard ware grinding to a sad end?”

“Fuck you, firecracker.”

“Remember Tony, Pepper would be sadly disappointed at the lack of tongue.”

Tony chocked a painful laugh. “God. Everyone thinks you’re so ladylike. What would cap think if he knew?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stark.” Natasha stood and primly straightened the bottom of her cashmere sweater. 

“Uh huh.”


End file.
